Fucking crazy, right? My father bursts with pride at the fact he has a son destined for the priesthood and St. Egbert Abbey. To me, it’s a fate worse than hell, and besides, it’s more pressure. Benedict’s put our bloodline at risk given that I’m the heir and he’s the spare. My youngest brother, Damien, doesn’t factor into the equation as he is banished and thereby removed from the line of succession. If I screw up here, the kingdom could pass from my family to my cousin Ingrid. She is a nice enough girl, and I don’t mean that dismissively. She is ten years old.
I shove on a pair of sweatpants, lace up my running shoes and catch my reflection in the window. I look like a debauched lord of the underworld.
Reflections on my banished brother Damien spiral me into a brooding darkness. The latest rumors claim that he resides half-time in London and the rest over in America. He could build a hermetically sealed tower in Madagascar for all I care, and it would still be too goddamn close. My family is like the setup to a bad joke: a commitment-phobic heir to the throne, a virgin almost-priest, and a black sheep all walk into a bar...
I jog through the quiet palace, past row after row of ancient ancestors appraising me from gilded frames. Do they wonder if I’ll ever measure up? If I’ll fulfill my legacy? Damn these black thoughts to hell. I get outside and run until my lungs are near bursting. On the edge of the grounds, near the Royal River, is the tower where my brother lives. He calls it his sanctuary, and he’s not wrong. Poor bastard might not use his cock, but he has peace. And he deserves it because I don’t say bastard lightly.
There isn’t conclusive proof, but there are many rumors that my mother took a brief liking to the head of her secret-service detail while my father was at a UN summit. The only evidence? My brother’s piercing green eyes—neither my mother’s nor my father’s.
I try the door.
“It’s locked, Sir,” a formal male voice calls out.
I turn to find X there, watching me with his usual impenetrable expression. One would think that after years of him appearing by my side without setting off so much as a floorboard creak, I would be used to his stealth. But it still unnerves me every time.
“I’m afraid Mr. Benedict was called away on urgent business.”
“Where to?” I ask.
“Vatican City.”
I laugh without humor. “Of course.”
Benedict is the only person that I count a true friend, one I can trust without question unlike recent experiences with Christian. And as far as I’m concerned, Benedict is my only brother. If I ever were to cross paths with Damien again, I know Benedict would pass me the knife to gut him.
One happy family.
Looks like I’m not going to be able to get any advice tonight. The only thing I can do is pop an Ambien and hope for a dreamless sleep.
Because tomorrow morning, I’ll be facing Kate Winter again. And this time she won’t be spreading her legs and offering me a sample of her nectar. She’ll be presenting me with a dossier of potential wives.
Kate
It’s déjà vu the next morning when I look out my apartment window to find X and the Rolls-Royce waiting against the curb. Maddie peers over my shoulder.
“I still don’t get it,” she says, and I can hear the disappointment lacing her tone. “Why did they specifically ask for you rather than me? It’s my agency, after all.”
Now that the contract has been signed, I can tell my sister everything. Which is good because that whole secrecy thing won’t fly when I’m getting picked up by a Rolls with a license plate that reads Royal. Besides, I’d accepted the job—after the king and queen agreed to double my fee for working with such a reluctant client. Well, it was the queen’s suggestion. Turns out that despite the business being Maddie’s baby, my recent success at facilitating what I thought had been a few discreet celebrity matches had not flown under the radar of the royal family.
“Come on, Mads,” I say. “It’s a gold star for the business regardless of whether it’s you or me facilitating the matches. Plus, you’re my partner in crime, so it’s not like we can’t work on Nikolai’s profile together.” In fact, the only thing I cannot disclose to anyone other than Maddie is the list of potential candidates.
She is obviously still pouting, but as much as I love my big sister and her flair for business, I am the one with the perfect match record—fifteen happy couples in just the past six months alone. It’s all in the interviews. One face-to-face conversation with each potential partner—separately, of course—and I can either feel their chemistry...or not. That, coupled with my limited celebrity experience, I’m sure is why they asked for me, but I don’t rub it in. While I’m proud I’ve taken so well to the business these past two years, what does it say that I can find happy endings for everyone—except myself?
Then I’m reminded that I risked my heart once, and the payoff was total devastation. No, thank you. I’m good with focusing on everything and anything other than that.
I wave to X and hold up a finger, letting him know I’ll be right there. Then I turn to face my sister, staring into icy blue eyes that mirror my own.
“Remember, Maddie, we need this fee. We are almost due for another quarterly payment at Silver Maples.” Gran’s been deteriorating, her Alzheimer’s getting worse almost by the week. We’re her sole financial support. Actually, we’re her sole everything. As much as it kills us not to have her at home, caring for her like she did raising us, her condition has declined too much. Silver Maples is a top-rated facility, one of the best in Europe. And it’s priced accordingly. It’s just out of our financial means at the moment, but I intend to change that.
I don’t mention the part about receiving no fee at all if I don’t get Nikolai down the aisle—if he is my first and only fail. I also may have omitted that despite my vow to find him a suitable queen, I already know what it feels like for his stubble to chafe my thighs, for his tongue to swirl around my swollen clit. Or to know that despite the matches that are perfect for Nikolai Lorentz on paper, the only chemistry I’m sure of at this point is whatever happened in that garden maze between myself and our future king.
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath and slip past her. I need to stop thinking myself into climax before I’ve even had my first sip of espresso. “I’m late.” I grab my dossier off our small kitchen table and reach for the small cup that should have three shots of my morning wake-up medicine when I realize the espresso machine is unplugged. I never forget my morning shot. Ugh. I am way off my game, which is not an auspicious beginning to day one with my most important client. “Shit,” I say louder and then groan my acceptance at another morning with an empty belly. I kiss my sister on the cheek. “Love you!” And then I dart out the door before she has a chance to respond.
Not that I’m expecting a repeat performance of what happened yesterday, but I wear my auburn waves loose today—in case of any mishaps. Better to have my hair down and unfettered than to attempt the whole conservative look only to wind up disheveled and unkempt. Because I much prefer kempt.
X holds open the car door, and I enter to find a veritable feast waiting for me on a small table attached to the wall that separates the rear of the vehicle from the front. There’s a bowl of the reddest strawberries I’ve ever seen, a small basket of scones and a stainless-steel travel mug of what I assume is coffee.
My
